Shadow Tyrants (Oregon Files 13)

The ejection system on the B-1B could be operated solely by the pilot or by each individual crew member. When the pilot pulled the ejection handle on the side of the seat, the canopy would blow off, then each seat’s rockets would fire in a prearranged sequence so that they didn’t hit each other when they were shot through the roof.

Petkunas steeled himself for the extreme force of the ejection and yelled, “Eject! Eject! Eject!” Then he pulled the handle.

Nothing happened.

He tried again with the same result.

“My seat isn’t working,” he told the others. “You’ll have to eject yourselves . . . Eject! Eject! Eject!”

They did as ordered. Still nothing. Even the canopy stayed in place.

Larsson stared at him in profound confusion. “What is going on? We got gremlins in here?”

Petkunas couldn’t explain it until he realized that each seat had a computer-controlled sequencer that precisely determined in what order they should be ejected milliseconds after the handle was pulled. He didn’t know how, but something had gone wrong with every piece of electronics on the plane.

Another snap decision.

“We’re landing,” Petkunas said, putting his hand back on the stick. “Let’s hope nobody decides to wander out onto the runway.”

He didn’t bother calling the tower. If the electrical problem was so complete that the seats wouldn’t eject, then the radio would be disabled as well.

“Coming around,” Petkunas said as he wrestled to bank the bomber. It fought him every inch of the way, but he was able to put the B-1B into a turn. He kept at it with all his strength until the runway was straight ahead of them. He leveled off and dropped the nose.

“Altitude is low,” Larsson said.

“Can’t help that,” Petkunas replied. “We need the speed or we’ll stall before we get to the island. Try lowering the flaps ten degrees.”

Larsson moved the handle, then shook his head. “No good.”

“I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

The artificial horizon and altimeter still worked since they were mechanical, but the fancy electronic displays were black, so Petkunas would have to do this by eyesight and feel along. If this had happened at night or in bad weather, they’d be dead men.

With the engines out, Petkunas would have only one chance to get this right. The runway was approaching fast as Larsson called out their altitude.

“Five hundred feet . . . Four hundred . . . Three . . . Two . . . One . . .”

Petkunas pulled back on the stick to flare out and bleed off speed, but he’d waited too long. He felt a jolt when the tail smacked the runway.

The impact pitched the plane forward. The bomber’s belly struck the runway with a teeth-rattling blow, and it continued to slide out of control. Petkunas could do nothing else now except go along for the ride.

The B-1B began to spin, and Petkunas braced himself for the impending somersault that would rip the plane apart. Sparks and smoke flew behind them as the plane scraped across the concrete tarmac, threatening to set fire to the remaining jet fuel if any of the tanks ruptured.

But the spin turned out to be what saved the plane. The bomber skidded into the grassy area next to the runway and kept going until it crossed a sandy beach that slowed them just before it plowed into the ocean. Seawater sprayed across the windscreen as they came to a halt.

Petkunas didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he took in a huge lungful of air to celebrate not dying.

“Everyone okay?” he asked h

is crew. All three responded that they were fine.

Normally, they’d exit through the stairway beneath the front landing gear, but that wasn’t possible with a belly landing. And there was still the possibility of a fire.

Petkunas reached up and manually activated the explosive bolts on the canopy, which blew off with a bang.

He waited while each man climbed over the edge and jumped out. Then he followed them and landed in the water with a splash. Soaking wet, he waded out of the water and joined his men next to the plane. He could see now that no fuel was leaking, and the plane looked in remarkably good shape except for its underside.

“Nice work, Major,” Larsson said, clapping him on the shoulder.